“Yes, but what luck for Lázarev! Twelve hundred francs’ pension for life.”
“Here’s a cap, lads!” shouted a Preobrazhénsk soldier, donning a shaggy French cap.
“It’s a fine thing! First-rate!”
“Have you heard the password?” asked one Guards’ officer of another. “The day before yesterday it was ‘ Napoléon, France, bravoure ’; yesterday, ‘ Alexandre, Russie, grandeur. ’ One day our Emperor gives it and next day Napoleon. Tomorrow our Emperor will send a St. George’s Cross to the bravest of the French Guards. It has to be done. He must respond in kind.”
Borís, too, with his friend Zhilínski, came to see the Preobrazhénsk banquet. On his way back, he noticed Rostóv standing by the corner of a house.
“Rostóv! How d’you do? We missed one another,” he said, and could not refrain from asking what was the matter, so strangely dismal and troubled was Rostóv’s face.
“Nothing, nothing,”